


Don't Panic | Plan It

by Miss_Snazzy



Series: In Which Modern Characters Frolic in Thedas [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Dysphoria, Fade Dreams, Fade Spirits, Foreknowledge, Gen, Kinloch Hold, Modern Girl in Thedas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Blight, The Fade, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-30 17:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12113646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: In 9:18 Dragon, a 6 year old human is found in the Kocari Wilds.Her demonstration of magic grants her a one-way ticket to Kinloch Hold.These events would hardly stand out if not for two facts:1) She knows she's trapped in a video game.2) She was 26 years old, the last she checked.The upside: 12 years should be more than enough time to come up with a plan to survive the impending Blight.(She hopes)





	1. Chapter 1

**[9:18 Dragon]  
[Helena: 6 years old – Thedas | 26 years old – Earth]**

 

 “My men said the poor girl was in hysterics when they found her.  She appears quite calm now,” Knight Commander Greagoir comments as he sidles up to First Enchanter Irving.  He follows his gaze to the newest member of their Circle.

The girl sits on the healer’s cot, hair tangled about her face, head tucked down and legs curled beneath her.  One of the Senior Enchanters had replaced the ill-fitting garments she wore prior in favor of one of their smaller sets of robes.  Though an improvement to the gaping collar of her old tunic, the fabric swims about her still, sleeves swallowing her tiny hands.

“Children have a remarkable ability to adapt, as you well know,” Irving reminds him, crossing his arms in the loose clasp he often favored when deep in thought.

They watch the girl, a child of no more than five or six, push her sleeves back to stare at her hands.  She studies the curl of her fingers with an almost disconcerting amount of intensity.

“Yes, but I’ve come to expect quite a bit more,” Greagoir’s mouth twists, “excitement.”

Irving peers at him with a raised brow.

“I had not known you were so keen for excitement, Greagoir.”

Greagoir scoffs.

“You know what I mean, Irving.  Acceptance does not usually come so easily,” he points out, gaze returning to the girl.  She studies her fingers still, though the purse of her lips has since deepened into a frown.

“Perhaps her complacency is borne of weariness?  She must have endured quite the ordeal abandoned as she was out there in the Wilds.”

“That is what concerns me.”

Irving turns, his brow furrowing and his usual placid smile falling at Greagoir’s tone.

“Have you reason to suspect—”

“No,” Greagoir denies, before such thoughts can gain breath.  The girl wraps her arms around her legs and he catches a glimpse of her crumpled expression before she buries her face in the folds of her robe.  He diverts his gaze back to Irving.  “The Circle’s wards did not repel her, nor did the healers uncover any wounds which might have been made by her hand.  Her mind seems her own.”

“Then what has you so on edge, Greagoir?”

“Need I remind you, Irving, how my men found her?”  Greagoir crosses his arms, the clink of his armor distant as his stare shifts toward memories Irving cannot follow.  “I cannot understand how a mere child managed to survive where so many men have not.”

“Perhaps it was the Maker’s will that she be delivered to us,” Irving offers, gaze drawing back to the girl as Jowan sneaks toward her, the boy far too curious for his own good.

Greagoir huffs, but his shoulders fall in a loss of tension he had not realized he bore.

“To what end?”

They watch Jowan settle on the cot beside her, coaxing her face from her knees with words spoken too softly for them to hear.

“We cannot hope to fully understand the will of the Maker,” Irving reminds him, tapping at his left elbow.  “We can only accept his miracles and strive not to waste them.  Still,” he presses, when Greagoir opens his mouth, “I will keep an eye on her.  Secrets do tend to have a way of exposing themselves, in the end.”

 

…

 

“Psst!”

Helena flinches at the quiet hiss into her left ear, jerking her face to the side.  The cot dips as the young boy settles in beside her.

“You’re the new mage the templars found, aren’t you?” he asks, eyes wide and smile eager.

The boy looks young.  Somewhere between five and ten.  And thin, though not malnourished.  His brown hair has the shagginess of childish neglect and he wears a deep, blue robe not unlike her own, though his seems to fit better.  Even hunched over, she can see that he might be a little taller than her.

Looking at him reminds her of a fun house mirror.

“I heard them talking,” he rushes in a whisper, “they said you were in the Wilds.”

Helena drops her stare back to her knees.

“Were you really out there?” he presses, the cot shifting with restless energy.  “What was it like?”

She resists the urge to bang her head against the stone wall behind her.  Somehow, she doubts that kind of behavior would go over well with these people.  The weight of those men’s gazes presses into her senses like a bruise.

“That is enough, Jowan,” the man in robes says as he strides toward them.  Helena’s eyes widen.  “There will be plenty of time to visit once she has a chance to settle in.  We don’t want to overwhelm her, do we?”

Her stare flicks from the old man standing before her to the young boy beside her.

“No, First Enchanter Irving,” the boy, fucking Jowan, recites, hopping off the cot with his head hanging.

She watches him sulk out of the room—no, chamber—with a disbelieving stare.

“Hello,” the robed man, goddamn Irving himself, greets as he crouches in front of her. 

Her gaze darts over his shoulder when the man in armor also steps closer. 

Would that make him Greagoir, then? 

“My name is Irving—I am the First Enchanter here.  This,” Irving gestures at the armored man behind him, “is Greagoir, the Knight Commander.”

Of course it fucking would.

“Can you tell us your name?”

They must want her surname.  Two possible answers rest on the tip of her tongue.

She clears her throat and bites both back, unwilling to take the risk.

“I’m Helena,” she whispers, cringing at the high tone of her voice.

“Helena,” Irving repeats, his lips curving into a small smile.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Helena purses her lips and offers a short nod.

“And how old are you, Helena?”

The truth rises from her chest in a vicious yearn for honesty, but she clenches her stupid tiny fists and looks down at her stupid tiny knees and keeps that truth held firm behind her stupid baby teeth.

When she looks back up, she catches Irving and Greagoir exchanging a glance.

“Can you tell us how you arrived in the Wilds?” Greagoir asks.

Helena peers up at him from over Irving’s shoulder and shakes her head with a shrug.

“I don’t know,” she admits, digging her hands into the meat of her legs.

Greagoir frowns, but Irving only purses his lips, seeming more contemplative than surprised.

“Never mind all that, Greagoir,” Irving insists, before returning his attention to Helena.  “You have been through much these last few days and I suspect you could use some rest.”

“Uh, yeah,” Helena whispers, eager for privacy.

Greagoir watches her for a moment before conceding with an incline of his head.

“Very well,” Irving smiles.  “You may rest here for tonight.  I fear the apprentice quarters would prove too lively for you at the moment.”

“Thanks,” she offers, a little louder.

“You are quite welcome.”  Irving rises from his crouch.  “Now, do try to get some rest.”

Irving and Greagoir draw the privacy curtain shut.  Helena watches their shadows flicker beyond the pale flaps, until they fade along with the sound of their steps.  A dull creak and the heavy echo of a door falling shut.  As far as she knows, she is alone.

She raises her arms and watches the heavy sleeves of her robes pool in her elbows.  Again, she finds a child’s arms, a child’s hands.  Her wrists remain as bony as ever, but scaled down.

“What the fuck,” she hisses on a near silent breath.

She blinks hard, but the image still refuses to resolve into something more familiar.  Age regression.  Of course, she has read countless stories about the phenomenon, but who actually expects it to happen to them?  To awake one day with two decades of their life shaved off?

Her hands drop in her lap.

The shift in locale almost falls secondary to all that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family dinner and a conversation with Irving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for body shaming.

**[9:18 Dragon]  
[Helena: 6 years old – Thedas | 26 years old – Earth]**

 

Mom stands in front of the stove in a pair of short shorts and a hoodie, her platinum hair swept up into a bun on the very top of her head with a red scrunchie.  She dishes up her signature Hamburger Helper with a side of mashed potatoes and peas. 

Helena counts only four plates.  Sometimes she wonders if Mom actually eats.

“She got more mashed potatoes than me,” Abby whines once Mom divvies up the plates.

“No, I didn’t,” Rebecca sneers back.  “You already ate half of yours cuz you’re fat.”

Alex chortles at the end of the table, shaking with mirth from his slim arms up to his light brown bowl cut.  

Helena watches from across the table as Abby’s eyes well with tears.

“Shut up,” Abby demands, glaring from under her own messier bowl cut.

“Fatty, fatty, boom-buh-latti,” Alex singsongs.

With a war cry, Abby brings a meaty fist down on Alex’s bony left shoulder.

Alex stops laughing.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, shoving Abby.

Abby’s eyes widen in panic, her hands grasping onto the end of the table to keep her chair upright.

“Knock it off,” Mom scolds as she steps between them, her long, bony fingers curling around each of their arms.

“She started it,” Alex hisses, jerking against her grip.

“I don’t care who started it, I’m finishing it.”

“Can I have more mashed potatoes?” Rebecca asks, her tone almost as bright as her long blonde hair.

Helena notes the smug curl to her lips as Mom releases their younger siblings to take her plate.

“But I asked first,” Abby points out.

“I know, hold on,” Mom says, scooping another dollop onto Rebecca’s plate.

Abby pouts.

Helena looks down at her own plate.  Mom gave her one of the chipped ones, but at least she left out those soggy noodles.  Plain hamburger gravy poured on a scoop of mashed potatoes—just the way she likes it.  Well, almost.  She grimaces at the small pile of peas encroaching on her mashed potatoes and nudges them away with her fork.

“You better be eating those peas.”

Helena glances up to find Mom frowning down at her from the other side of the table.

“I love peas,” Rebecca announces from Mom’s left, tilting her chin up as she sucks a scoop off of her spoon.

“Me too,” Abby adds from her right.

Alex fumes, glaring down at his plate as he rubs the arm Mom grabbed.

“I don’t,” Helena mutters down at her plate.

“They’re good for you,” Mom says.

“They’re gross,” Helena insists, poking one.  She grimaces at the green ooze on the end of her fork.

Mom’s frown deepens, her wrinkles sinking further, almost as if someone carved them there.

“I don’t care if you like them or not.  They’re good for you,” she repeats in that tone that makes Helena’s shoulders hunch, “and you’re not leaving this table until you eat them.”

Helena glares down at her plate.  She can’t eat them, she’ll throw up.  Why does she have to choke these stupid peas down?  Why didn’t Mom make more of an effort?  Why didn’t she find vegetables that Helena could eat?  If Mom had exposed Helena to different vegetables then, she could—

Helena blinks, dropping her fork.

“I don’t have to eat this,” she realizes, staring at her hands, her fingers slim but long.

Too long for this script.

Another fork clangs onto one of the plates across from her.

“Excuse me?” Mom hisses.  “You will eat every single pea on that plate or—”

Helena raises her head.  The seats around the table are empty.

“No, I really fucking won’t.”

Mom gasps.

“What did you just say?”

“Fuck, fuckety, fuck fuck,” Helena replies in a jaunty tune, pushing back her chair.

“You—sit back down and finish your dinner,” Mom demands.  “Now.”

“Screw you—you’re not my real mom.”  Helena laughs, looking down at her, even if only by an inch or so.  “Besides, even if you were, I still wouldn’t have to eat shit.”

The Thing pretending to be her mom jerks closer, its body thinning as it stretches taller, and Helena wants to laugh.  Their height difference had always been near negligible—just that inch or so.  The Thing could double its size, but it couldn’t shove Helena back down onto small hands and clumsy legs.  Not now.

The Thing stops growing after half a foot and strides through the table between them, the illusion warping around its form as its face cracks.

The Thing hisses, “You little—”

“This isn’t real,” Helena points out, triumphant even as her heart thunders in her chest.

A bright flash of light fills the room and Helena shields her eyes, staggering back.  When she drops her arm, she finds both the light and her old kitchen gone, along with whatever had worn the guise of her mother.  A path bracketed by rocks extends before her, the world a wash of green and a vacuous darkness.

“’And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,’” Helena murmurs, turning in place with wide eyes.

“Where did you find that?” a voice asks from behind her.

Helena jumps and whips around, catching a glimpse of gold and purple before the world tilts and she smacks into stone.

“Ow,” she hisses, blinking bleary eyes around her.

A faint, flickering light illuminates the stone walls of the infirmary.  She leans against the cot behind her and reaches to untangle the blanket around her legs, pausing when she sees her childlike hands.

Not _like_ , she corrects, shoulders falling.

 

…

 

Helena steps into Irving's office, hands clenched in the fabric of her robes to keep from tripping.  Her gaze sweeps across the bookshelves, but she resists the urge to investigate further.  Based on her playthroughs of Inquisition, she knows the likelihood of finding any texts written with the English alphabet is low.

And isn't that a _Harrowing_ thought—a bibliophile unable to read.

"Do you have an interest in books?" Irving's voice snaps Helena's gaze to the opposite side of the room, watching the man stride forward and sift through some papers on his desk.

Once again, she strains under the desire for honesty.  Who knows what age children learn to read in this world?  Her answer might betray her in some way.

Irving turns around and Helena shrugs, her lips twisting.

“You will have plenty of time to familiarize yourself in the coming months,” Irving comments as he meanders passed her.  He raises a hand to the bookcase and plucks out a slim book.  “You might even discover an appreciation for them.”

Helena pictures her bookcases at home, the shelves warping under the weight of her collection.

Irving opens the book to a page with a few drawings and offers it to Helena.  Her shoulders slump, but she keeps her hands gentle as she studies the strange symbols scribed across the yellowed paper.

“What does it say?” she asks, gaze caught on a sketch of a young woman surrounded by some kind of force field.

“I’ve found this book to be quite helpful as an introductory text.  This page,” Irving taps on the sketch of the young woman, “describes just one of the many ways your gifts can be harnessed to protect you.”

A slew of responses rise to the forefront of her thoughts, but fracture before reaching her mouth.

“Oh,” Helena murmurs instead of contributing, gaze shifting to the swirling dark figures pressing against the woman’s barrier.

“The common term for this spell is ‘Mind Blast,’” Irving says, with a note of amused exasperation, “though it’s far more complex than such a name would suggest.  The bash of a warrior’s shield cannot compare to this spell’s concussive force or ‘blast.’”

Helena glances up at Irving, noting the rehearsed quality of his words that spoke of past arguments. 

“It’s a wave of pure will drawn from deep within the caster,” Irving explains.  “To use it to stagger an opponent is to overpower their own force of will, even if only for a moment.”

“Will you teach me?” Helena wonders, voice small.

Irving smiles.

“You will learn that and more, child.  Here at the Circle, we are dedicated to educating our apprentices in the arcane arts, so that they may hone their craft and prepare themselves for the difficulties ahead.”

Helena closes the book.

“You mean demons?”

Something in Irving’s smile or his eyes shifts, and Helena recalls that cutscene she watched on YouTube once upon a time, wherein he urged both Amell and Surana to trick Jowan.

“Yes, demons are but one difficulty you will face.”

Helena restrains herself from scoffing at that.

_No kidding._

“Tell me, child, can you remember your first use of magic?  What led you into the Wilds?”

Helena remembers blinking in something deeper than darkness, something absent and void, ears so clogged with that void that even her thoughts grew muffled under the panic, throat scraped raw from—screaming?  Was she screaming?

She remembers her life on Earth.  Her family, her friends.  She can visualize her bedroom with all its clutter and knickknacks.

She tries to recall what led to that moment of silent cacophony and finds only absence.

The last thing she did, the last person she spoke to—all swallowed in that void.

And then the templars.

“No,” Helena admits.  She shifts in place, tapping her thumb against the book.  “Do you know how the templars found me?”

Irving sighs, though not unkindly.

“Do not trouble yourself.  I am certain you will recover those memories in time.”  Irving extends a hand and Helena returns the book, trying not to frown.  “In the meantime, let us focus on getting you settled.”

Helena wants to insist Irving give her a real answer, but in the end she just nods, trailing after him.  He leads her into the hallway and she works to keep her steps measured, grimacing at the thought of meeting anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." -Friedrich Nietzsche_

**Author's Note:**

> Trying a different approach to writing this one. Hopefully, that helps me gather momentum.  
> I haven't been feeling motivation for much of anything, as of late.


End file.
